


just think of the fun things we could do

by msmerlin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, American Cormac, American Hermione, But like... Hermione and Cormac, Consent is Sexy, Cormac is a gentleman, Doctors & Physicians, Drunk Texting, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Emergency room, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fluff, Fluffysmut, Inspired by Grey's Anatomy, Muggle Life, No idea why I do this, Nonsense, Radiologist, Romantic Comedy, Set in California, Smut, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin
Summary: She was young...ish, and single! While she was far from a ten, she was easily a seven and a half and therefore should—theoretically—be able to find a halfway decent man to take home.It wasn’t like her standards were exactly high for a barroom one-night stand.or the one in which Hermione tries to sleep with the resident ladies man at her work, only to be turned down multiple times.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Cormac McLaggen
Comments: 50
Kudos: 141





	1. like, I want you, bless my soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bionically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.

Eight years.

Hermione had wasted _eight years_ of her life in a committed relationship—being a good girl.

Eight fucking years of missed opportunities.

Eight years of sleeping with the same selfish lover, and she was determined _not_ to make that same mistake twice. No, Never again. She was going to add several notches to her bedpost and make up for time lost on that man-child, and tonight was the first step in this new direction.

That was the idea, at the _very_ least, when she shimmied into the black jeans that were just a hair too small and shrugged into the mildly-offensive floral print blouse with a neckline that ran just a little too low. It wasn't her personal style, but it was the closest thing to normal she could find in the bag of hand-selected choices from Lavender's closet. Why on earth that woman thought she would be even remotely interested in a body-con dress was beyond her. Had Lav _seen_ her hips? That was clearly _never_ going to be an option.

It was barely ten o'clock—relatively early by any club-hopping twenty-something's standards, but Hermione couldn't help but feel like she was already failing at the whole ' _go find a random stranger to fuck'_ scenario.

Thus far, she'd purchased her own drinks, abruptly ended two conversations with potential suitors, and was well on her way to drunk completely and utterly alone.

Her painted fingers plucked a shot of Fireball from the sticky countertop and she tipped it back, the sting of the aged whisky burning down her throat. She quickly quelled the sting with the tarte cider that she'd ordered as her chaser.

Admittedly, this probably wasn't the wisest of plans. She'd only just finished traversing all five stages of grief and had resolved not to spend a second longer crying over Ronald can't-keep-my-dick-in-my-pants Weasley.

She was young...ish, and single! While she was far from a ten, she was easily a seven and a half and therefore should— _theoretically_ —be able to find a halfway decent man to take home.

It wasn't like her standards were exactly high for a barroom one-night stand.

All Mr Right-for-the-night needed to have was a pulse ( _always_ a plus), a decent smile (straight teeth preferred, not mandatory), and not dress like some sort of man-child (no free shirts from GameStop). Was that really asking too much?

Based on a brief survey of the room, it evidently was.

"Hey, baby. Can I buy you a drink?"

Pet names. Ugh. She fucking _abhorred_ pet names. They felt foreign, and weird, and made her stomach clench in discomfort. She didn't even bother to turn towards the wanna-be casanova. Even if he was gorgeous, there was absolutely no way she would ever bed a man who used _pet names_. "Nope." Lifting up her cider, she took another hasty gulp.

"Aw, don't be like that. Come on… you look lonely."

She wasn't fucking _lonely_. She was sexually frustrated and, quite frankly, disappointed in the selection of men who decided to venture out on this Friday night, but that was far from this guy's problem. Lifting her hand, she waved down the counter to the barkeep, lifting her nearly finished pint to indicate she needed another.

"Look, just let me buy you one drink, then if you—"

A hand found her waist, and chills instantly went up her spine. Not the 'oh this is meant to be' kind, but rather that immediate slip of dread that accompanied an unwanted touch. She jolted backward, nearly overturning the barstool in her hurry to put distance between herself and the handsy stranger. " _Whoa_. Look I'm—"

"Hey! Hands off, asshole," came a rough baritone from just over her shoulder.

The voice was… oddly familiar, though she couldn't quite place it in her drink-induced haze.

Frowning, she turned toward the voice, only to find none other than Cormac Fucking McLaggen—Resident Panty Collector of UC Davis' Medical Center, approaching with a stern look etched in his too-handsome face.

Cormac.

Even his name sent a shiver down her spine and pooled heat in her panties. God, what she wouldn't do to climb that man like a tree.

Even when she had been engaged, she couldn't deny the sex appeal that seemed to ooze off him. He was tall—probably 6'2" if she had to guess—built like a football player, and had a charming smile to match the physique that she just knew was sculpted from pure muscle.

If his looks alone weren't enough, his reputation preceded him. Cormac was supposedly incredibly… _talented_ , according to the rumors, like some sort of modern-day Adonis. He'd slept his way through nearly all of the female nursing staff in pediatrics (Agnis technically didn't count, right?), as well as select individuals in various other departments.

James in IT also claimed he'd heard from Vlad in Neurology, who'd heard from Gerald in Ortho that he'd bedded the illustrious Dr. Longbottom, but Hermione wasn't sure if she believed that. Neville was cute and all, but really, if Cormac were into guys she'd have figured him more into men like… well, like Dr. Malfoy, or even Dr. Zabini.

But definitely not Neville.

Never.

She watched now, stuck somewhere between awestruck and grateful as he curled his bearpaw-like hand around the overly-enthusiastic suitor's shoulder, and pulled the man away from her with a rough yank.

"Whoa! Sorry, dude! I didn't realize she was here with someone." The stranger stumbled under Cormac's tug, hands lifted in surrender and he tucked his proverbial tale and darted from the bar to lick his wounds.

Cormac furrowed his brow and watched the man walk away, making sure he'd slithered back to whatever dark corner he'd come from before he turned his attention towards her. Suddenly his fire was gone—replaced with a sprinkle of concern that both intrigued her and made her want to reach across the narrow space between them and thank her savior properly. "Hermione, you alright?"

Hermione blinked once… twice… three times, the gears in her mind struggling to turn and make sense of what had just happened.

Cormac… saved her?

No, no—she hadn't been in danger (had she?), though he certainly 'rescued' her from having to deal with an asshole.

Regardless, Cormac, as in Dr. McLaggen, had just helped her.

It wasn't like she didn't _know_ him. She'd worked alongside him for nearly two years now, but their interactions were sparse, only communicating via phone or the infernal text chat system the hospital insisted they use. And 'Hey, bed 15 has an obstruction' is not as personal as one might think, so it felt kind of startling that he not only remembered her, but also her given name.

"Hermione?"

Shaking her head, Hermione pulled her eyes away from the handsome radiologist and took a hasty sip of her drink. "Ehh—yep. Just peachy…" Okay, maybe not peachy, but she wasn't maimed or scarred for life. "Wasn't the first time some dickhead got handsy with me, and unfortunately, probably won't be the last."

"That's… that's not okay though." He wasted no time in claiming the empty barstool beside her, thick arm resting on the back of her chair, boxing her in. "You shouldn't have to deal with that. No one should… I'm sorry."

It was the alcohol—it had to be the alcohol. That was the only logical explanation for the sharp snort that followed the last sip of her cider. "Are you apologizing on behalf of your entire sex, or just that one asshole?"

"Uh… the first one I suppose."

"Well in that case—" she adjusted her seat, shifting her body so she could face him, her back pressing into the narrow arm of the barstool, "—thank you, but I'd much rather have you buy me a drink. Correction: _several_ drinks as repentance for your kind's abysmal behavior."

He laughed—actually laughed at what she said, that genuine, corner-of-the-eye crinkling kind of laugh. The kind was pleasant to the ears, deep, throaty... not too boisterous. She could get used to that laugh. She _wanted_ to get used to that laugh—though, truthfully, she couldn't help but wonder what other kinds of sounds he made. Specifically, the type made beneath sheets.

Cormac leaned against the bar, a single elbow bracing his hulking frame as he reached up to run his fingers through his cropped golden curls, lips lifted in that ' _come fuck me'_ grin that made her want to reach across the narrow space between them and demand he take her home. "You're pretty clever, you know that?"

"I've been told a time or two." Hermione waved her hand, eyes drifting away from the too-handsome physician to scan the crowded bar, trying to give her poor panties a break. The longer she kept looking at him—thinking about him, the more and more noticeable that growing bloom low in her stomach became. "Something that doesn't hurt in our line of business."

"No… I mean you're funny. Witty even. It's kind of refreshing to have a conversation with someone, as opposed to… well, you know?"

Ah yes, the infamous _you know_. What Dr. McLaggen was referring to had to be how he seemed to have made it a mission to fuck every female at UC Davis Medical Center. Tales of his prowess were whispered during change-of-shift report, nurses retelling their nights' events with the illustrious radiologist like it was a badge of honor to have let him fall into their bed. "Though, to be fair, I did already know you're smart."

"Your praise is sweet but unneeded." Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye, while her finger trailed around the rim of her empty glass.

If the rumors were true, Dr. McLaggen was not only an absolute beast in the sack but also a sure thing, then maybe, just maybe, all of Hermione's problems were solved.

He was _obviously_ easy on the eyes. They had a good rapport, and well… if it meant she got to fuck him? Well, fuck it—this might be perfect.

She wasn't looking for a relationship, and based on the tales that filtered through the E.R., neither was he.

It was a perfect plan, one she was more than happy to execute.

"Can I get another round down here?"

Hermione turned, cocking a brow at Cormac as he signaled to the bartender before gesturing between the two of them with a lazy flick of his fingers. Once the barkeep acknowledged his request, those beautiful blue eyes found hers, and her lips lifted into a smile as if they had a mind of their own. "You're buying me a round?"

"Well, you said I _had_ to… but selfishly, I'd like to enjoy your company this evening."

Yes. Yes. Yes! This was good. This was what she needed. Hook, line and sinker.

"I think we can make that happen."

* * *

One drink turned into two, which turned into three and by the time she lost count, Hermione found herself on the dance floor, Cormac's body curled against hers as they moved to the pumping rhythm of some god-awful hip-hop song.

But terrible lyrics and sweaty bodies be damned, she couldn't help the warm feeling that flooded her person when his hands moved over her hips. They were huge and menacing, holding her with a firm grip that hinted at a possessive streak that Hermione prayed translated into dominance in the bedroom.

She could feel his heart against her back, thumping in time with each precise roll of her hips, his body molded to hers.

She never danced—normally she absolutely _hated_ it, but when he asked her, batting those long, dark eyelashes at her over the glass of his beer, how could she possibly say no?

Physical attractiveness aside, he _was_ buying her drinks, so agreeing to a dance was only the nice thing to do.

Though now, she found she might be the one asking him on the floor next time.

The feel of his body against hers, the way his hips cradled her ass, the firm press of his cock against her, it was all like some form of exquisite foreplay she'd never participated in before.

Ron never danced—even opting to sit on the sidelines during his sister's wedding, and before him? Well, there really wasn't a time before him. Ron had been her first… everything. And she'd assumed (wrongfully) that she was his.

Hindsight is always 20/20 and now, even too many drinks in, it seemed no different.

Emboldened by the cider and Fireball that coursed through her veins—or perhaps it was the way Cormac held her like his body was made to fit against hers— Hermione reached down, her fingers sliding atop his and she slowly and deliberately began to guide his palm across her torso.

Up, and up, it moved, leaving a blazing trail even through her clothing, and just when their entwined fingers brushed the bottom swell of her breast, just when she could feel that familiar but long forgotten feeling of need overtake all rationale, she felt him freeze behind her. That dark, throaty chuckle tickled the sweat-stricken curls on the side of her head, as his hand lowered to splay across her stomach, pulling her tighter back into his hold.

"I need another drink." His lips ghosted across the shell of her ear, and Hermione bit her bottom lip to suppress a needy whimper. Fuck, had it really been that long? Was something as simple as his voice in her ear going to turn her into a puddle on a crowded dance floor? "Come with me?"

Her heart skipped a beat, that husky breathless question pushing her already wandering mind into overdrive with the endless possibilities of what he might sound like if they were lost under covers back at her apartment. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, pink spreading down her neck and across her chest.

Evidently, yes, she was _that_ desperate.

Her body swayed, though no longer to the rhythm of the music.

Drinks were flowing, both of their tabs likely crossing the triple-digit line by this point. For every round he purchased, Hermione felt obligated to match. She didn't want him to think she was using him, though technically she was. But not for his wallet, but rather what lay beneath his boxers.

"One more!" Laughter bubbled up her throat, her side pressed against his playfully, practically begging him to pull her in his lap as she lifted her hand, waving to the bartender. Once the pretty brunette's attention was caught, she gestured sloppily between Cormac and herself. "Another round, please!"

His arm slithered around her waist, hand curling around her hip, and fingers pressing against the softness of her middle. Under normal circumstances, she might be shy, nervous that he'd feel the way her jeans cut into her middle just a little too tight, or how those extra Twix bars she'd bought from the vending machine post-breakup might have contributed to a slight weight gain.

Thankfully, alcohol was a great fix to the pesky problem of self-consciousness. Leaning into his hold, she felt his nose against the side of her neck, a low groan leaving his lips to tickle her skin. "Nooo… I can't have anymore. I drove here and—"

"Where do you live?"

"What?" Cormac pulled back, a wayward blond curl hanging across his forehead like some devilish James Dean as he cocked his head to the side.

"What part of town are you in?" She twisted in his hold but didn't dare leave his orbit. She draped her arm over his fingers, fingers toying with the collar to his tee as her other hand came to rest against his denim-clad thigh. She watched his eyes darken as her palm slid up his leg, the thick muscles taut beneath her fingertips as she toyed the line between socially acceptable and absolutely depraved.

She could do this.

She could be this type of woman.

She _wanted_ this. Casual hookups, walks of shame, she wanted to add her name to the list of women who'd shagged the infamous Dr. McLaggen, and though once sober, she might slightly regret the choice of fucking a colleague, it would at least fix that whole dry spell problem she'd fallen into.

"I'm in midtown. Off 14th and H. If you're near there we can just split an Uber." Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, holding his gaze, silently hoping, praying, begging that he'd agree and she could convince him to—

"Here ya go."

The soft thunk of shot glasses hitting the epoxy broke whatever drink-induced spell she'd fallen into staring into those endless blue eyes of his, and she turned to flash a toothy grin at the bartender. "Thank you, Shelby."

"My pleasure. Whose tabs is it on this time?"

"Mine," Cormac spoke up before a syllable could leave her tongue, and Hermione craned her head to look over at him, jaw dropped in false ire.

"What? A gentleman should always pay." He gave her a wink, his fingers flexing gingerly against her hip.

"A gentleman?" Hermione snorted as she pulled the shots closer towards them, gently nudging his into his hand that lay on the bartop. "I'm not sure I'd give you that differential diagnosis, Dr. McLaggen." At least she hoped he fucking wasn't.

She didn't want a gentleman. No, she wanted—correction— _needed_ a good time.

"Is that so?" That smirk fell into place once more, pink tongue peeking out to drag across his lips. "Where would I fall then, _Dr. Granger_?"

In her bed, she hoped, but she wasn't very well going to say that out loud… yet.

Picking up her shot, she toasted him with raised brows before tipping it back, letting the cinnamon burn of the whiskey travel down her throat, mixing with the cider still in her belly and she let out a small hiss before snatching her luke-warm drink from the bar and took a quick pull of her chaser.

"Fun."

* * *

The rest of their time at Badlands felt like a blur. Dancing, drinking, hastily eating a hotdog from a street vendor at Cormac's insistence before she somehow made it to her apartment.

She couldn't remember riding in a car, and certainly didn't remember ordering one, but one moment they were outside the bar, his arms enveloping her shivering frame and the next she was tugging him into her apartment by laced fingers.

Distantly, she could hear the yowl of her cat, likely upset he had to resort to the dry kibble in his dish tonight instead of wet food, but she wasn't terribly concerned about Crooks' dietary preferences right now.

Not when Cormac crossed the threshold into her sparsely decorated two-bedroom.

Tossing her keys on the entry table, Hermione let go of his hand before she spun around, still wobbly, like a baby deer on new legs. She stumbled back under her own weight, leaning against the table with a loud thump.

"Whoaaa. You alright?" His hands went out, instinctively reaching for her waist, but he paused before making contact, concern sparkling in his eyes. God, she hoped they could do this again. He was fucking handsome—far more chiseled than her ex had ever been, or ever _would_ be. Her gaze dropped from his sharp jaw, running down the length of his throat and over the hard planes of his chest.

Even through the fitted shirt she could make out the hint of taut muscles beneath. Well developed, hulking.

 _Fuck_. They would definitely need to do this more than once.

"I'm fine." Her hand rose to push back her curls in a motion that she hoped looked more like a swoop than a flail and she flashed her best saucy smile at him before she shrugged from the lightweight bomber jacket she'd selected on her way out earlier.

"I...uh… I should—"

His words died when her hands curled around the bottom hem of her blouse and she attempted to pull it off in one fluid motion, but only managed to tangle her arms and head in the garment. "Hold on." He laughed, though she would never admit it, but it sounded a little condescending as he helped free her from her own trap.

"Stay?"

"Hermione… I don't think that'd be a very good idea." Her shirt hit the floor, and his hands capped her shoulders, thumbs stroking gently across her skin as he gave her a weak smile.

He was… he was turning her down?

But he slept with… _everyone_. Janice in accounting, and Jaime in Cardiology and even fucking Karen in Peds! But he was turning _her_ down?!

No. No, that couldn't be right.

He'd flirted with her all night. Bought her drinks and held her hand. He couldn't keep his fucking hands _off_ her. Why would he—No, she'd misheard.

"I… I'm sorry, what?"

Cormac laughed again, and _fuck her_ , this time it was condescending. That same awkward laugh people gave at bad jokes, or to their distant relative when they said something embarrassing.

And just like that, this _sure thing_ Hermione had put all her effort into for the evening was slipping between her fingers.

"Let's get you to bed, yeah? It's been a night and you work tomorrow." His arm was curling around her, easing her body against his for support.

She wanted to protest. To tell him to stop dicking around and just _stay_ , but as they moved through her apartment, she only found herself pointing towards which door led to her bedroom.

"You…you—don't you want me?" The question slipped from her tongue unbidden as he sat her on the edge of her bed before kneeling to remove her shoes. She tried to look sexy, to give in some sort of incentive to bed her. She cocked her head to the side, curls spilling over her shoulder as she bit her bottom lip, and in this moment, it felt right. But the reality was she probably looked more like the Dread pirate Roberts than some drunken temptress.

Her fingers flexed against her knees, anxiety creeping up as he looked up at her with lifted brows, but not a single word slipped from his lips as he took her in. As he sat motionless at her knees, her focus on his only seemed to play tricks on her mind, his image doubling and she was forced to close one eye so there was only one of him to keep track of.

Not that two Cormacs would be a _bad_ thing. She'd never had a threesome before, but—

"You're drunk." He peeled her socks off, stuffing them in her shoes before rising to a tall knee, his hands moving up her legs, working over the outside of her thighs before they moved to the waistband of her jeans.

"So are you?"

"I'm sober enough." His index finger and thumb pulled the zipper, and despite knowing he wasn't going to do what she wanted, the simple act of him undressing her felt erotic. Her heartbeat thumped to life, louder and louder as he worked her denim over her hips and down her legs, revealing the pair of silky panties she'd pulled from the back of her intimate drawer earlier.

They were far from fancy, but definitely better than the normal cotton bikini-cut she wore with her scrubs, and judging from the way his eyes lingered on them, she guessed he might approve.

His Adam's apple bobbed, running the length of his throat and for a single moment, she thought he might change his mind.

She was here, ready, willing, waiting. All he had to do was reach out and take what he so clearly wanted.

His hand moved, sliding over the curve of her thigh, down her calf, fingers pressing lightly against the overused muscle and she shivered, flesh erupting in goosebumps where his hand had just been.

But when he reached her ankle, he didn't pause and spread her legs as she'd hoped.

No.

He hooked both of her feet into his hands and lifted her legs until he could maneuver her to lay down.

Her head hit the pillows, curls spreading out beneath her and she watched, helpless to the unwanted chivalry as he tucked her comforter around her body.

"I'll see ya around, Dr. Granger." A kiss was pressed on her brow, and her eyes closed as the scent of his cologne drifted close once more. Pine, salt, and just the hint of ocean mist. It reminded her of camping in Mendocino as a young girl, instantly filling her with a sense of unexplainable comfort.

She couldn't manage to open her eyes once they'd shut. She mumbled a goodnight in return, though she doubted he'd heard. His footsteps sounded so far away and she wasn't entirely sure her voice could reach octaves above a light whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story title from: [ I think he knows by Taylor Swift ](https://youtu.be/2d1wKn-oJnA)  
> Chapter title from: [ Delicate by Taylor Swift ](https://youtu.be/tCXGJQYZ9JA)
> 
> inspiration for this fic comes from the lovely, & amazingly talented [bionically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically). we were talking and she challenged me to a cormione several months ago, and I am never one to turn down a challenge. armed with romantic comedy prowess, and a love for medical drama's, I cooked up this little diddy. so this is for you my dear! enjoy.
> 
> every chapter title is based off a taylor swift song, because t.swizzle is a fuckin' boss ass bitch. i make no apologies.
> 
> massive thank you's to my team helping me pull this together. without them I would be nothing.  
> thank you [dreamsofdramione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugggghead/pseuds/dreamsofdramione) for alpha work and listening to me ramble about this.  
> thank you [Disenchantedglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disenchantedglow/) for beta/alpha work.  
> thank you [Cecemarty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecemarty/pseuds/cecemarty) for being my resident nurse and helping me with all the medical terminology and insider details.
> 
> any remaining mistakes in this are my own, please enjoy.  
> until next time. xx
> 
> Aesthetic credit to the ever fabulous [NuclearNik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik/pseuds/NuclearNik)


	2. 'cause you're so gorgeous it actually hurts

It had been years since she'd had a proper hangover—fucking _years_.

It was her last year of med-school. Whiskey with friends to celebrate finals. She still couldn't look at a Wild Turkey label without her stomach trying to claw its way up her throat.

She was almost thirty, had a career, was settled into her life for all intents and purposes. She absolutely should _not_ have a fucking hangover, especially while on shift.

Though, technically it all made sense. With the way her year was going, having a hangover on what was turning out to be the busiest night of the month was par for course.

The beginning of her shit-tastic year began six months ago when a blonde stranger (whom she'd come to find out was named Susan) showed up on her doorstep with very bad news and a little bundle of joy wrapped in a pink blanket.

There had been no denying the paternity of the little babe. Even if Ron had been able to come up with some sort of lie that might explain away his evident indiscretions, there was absolutely no way he could explain away the family resemblance. Flaming red hair, fair skin, and those eyes. Big, beautiful, and cornflower blue. The same fucking eyes Hermione had wished her own children would inherit.

Half a year later the sting hurt less than it did that day, but this hangover?

Well presently, that was more pressing than licking her wounds and wallowing in the misery of a failed relationship.

She gripped her stylus tighter, knuckles whitening as she flipped through the patient's chart, only halfway paying attention as the middle-aged woman droned on and on about her reason for her third visit to the E.R. within the last sixty days.

Fifty-seven. Married, three adult children. Former smoker. No major ailments. No recent surgeries, and based on the toxicity panel they ran when she was in last week, she wasn't a drug user. Iron levels were normal and the urine sample she gave was clear.

None of this made sense.

"I'm sorry—how long did you say it's been since you last… uh… since you last defecated, Mrs. Ortecho?" She hated that word—defecate. It just sounded fucking filthy. But she needed to be professional, and really there was no other way around asking when the last time she went shit was.

Mrs. Ortecho bristled, sun-spotted hands smoothing over the mildly offensive pastel green patient gown, adjusting the billowed sleeves with an air of annoyance that only a fool would have been able to not pick up on. " _If_ you had listened, I've already explained that it had been almost fourteen days. Is Dr. Johnson available? I always see Dr.—"

"Dr. Johnson is otherwise disposed at the moment—" aka, Angelina begged her to take this cantankerous bitty. "—but I am happy to help." Hermione forced a smile, that fake 'this-is-the-smile-I-give-my-patients' smile. Everyone had one, you _had_ to. And for those newbies who hadn't yet been seasoned by ill-tempered patients and drunks? Well they certainly made quick work of developing one.

"I'm _sure_ you are." Mrs. Ortecho made little attempt to her eye roll, shifting on the bed once more. "Look, I just want this problem fixed. Immediately. Do you think I enjoy coming in every month to have… to have—" her dark eyes darted toward Ignacio, the unlucky nurse who had been assigned to help her this evening. Clearing her throat, Mrs. Ortecho leaned forward, her shrill voice dropped to a harsh whisper, like Ignacio would be unable to hear in the tiny room. "—to have my… my poop sucked out?"

Had this been any other day, one that wasn't precluded by Hermione drinking way too much, she might have to stifle a laugh. She might have thought that Mrs. Ortecho had some secret anal kink and got off to poor Angelina digitally extracting her impacted bowels. She might have made some sly comment. Fortunately for both her and , the planets were aligned.

Clutching her tablet, Hermione turned her attention away from the patient and back to her chart, lips pressing together as she went through the list of her medications. "It appears that your primary prescribed you a suppository shortly after your visit...bisacodyl?"

"I don't know the name. That's not _my_ job—that's yours." The jingle of jewelry let Hermione know some rude gesture accompanied her snap.

Deep breaths. She could do this. She could handle this. This was far from her worst patient. This bitch didn't hold a candle to Frat-boy Chad and the disappearing dildo.

"And have they helped with the constipation?"

"No. They didn't help _at all_."

Unless this women was eating literal cement, there was no fucking way they didn't help. This made no sense, and quite frankly, Hermione did not feel like going on a fact finding expedition in her current state because every time that woman opened her mouth the pounding headache only seemed to amplify.

"I already emailed , but I would really prefer a new medication regardless—"

No shit.

"—they are rather large and taste awful."

Hermione froze, her grip on her stylus loosening just a bit as the words sunk in. _taste… awfu_ l. No… no that couldn't be right. She didn't have this woman's education history, but surely she knew suppositories weren't meant to be taken orally. Clearing her throat, Hermione peeked over the top of her tablet, stylus tapping lightly against the hard plastic case. "Uh… I'm sorry. You said they _taste_ bad?"

"Yes. Absolutely horrendous. I know medication mustn't always taste palatable but you'd think they could make it a little less waxy. I've been having to cut them in thirds just to be able to get it all down."

Ignacio, bless him, did his best to maintain composure, but as Mrs. Ortecha continued on about orally consuming the suppositories, he was unable to manage. Abandoning fiddling with the heart rate monitor, the ever stoic nurse hurried out of the room, his laughter barely stifled beneath fake coughs.

"Is he sick? If he was sick and I catch a cold—"

"Knock, knock."

That voice. God, she knew that voice. She wanted to enjoy this moment—telling Mrs. Ortecha she wasn't supposed to eat medication designed to be administered rectally. As much as her head fucking hurt, she was willing to deal with whatever banshee form the woman would surely take, just so she could see the look of pure embarrassment that was sure to follow.

But the moment _that_ voice came over her shoulder, all plans of enjoyment vanished.

Hermione looked over her shoulder, a tight lipped smile still plastered on her face. _Fuck_ he was handsome. She must have looked like death warmed over. Her hair was a disaster, barely held on the top of her head in a bun, she was sure there were bags under her eyes (though, let's be fair, there were _always_ bags under her eyes), and she wasn't even wearing her cute scrubs under her white coat.

No, she'd opted to go with the UC Davis issued navy blue set, which wouldn't have been bad, except these were her oldest set and fit her much like a potato sack would.

Cormac though, as always, was the epitome of put together. Golden blond curls perfectly quaffed, a pair of deep burgundy scrubs that played well with his sun-kissed complexion and not an ounce of sleep deprivation evident.

How had he done it? He was out just as late as she had been, but looked like he'd gotten a full eight hours of rest and hadn't put his liver through the ringer—which she knew for a fact he had.

"Dr. McLaggen." She greeted, turning to face him. "Is there something I can assist with?

"Yes, actually." He flashed her a toothy grin, blue eyes shining at her under the harsh fluorescent bulbs. If she didn't feel like trash she might swoon. He turned his attention to her patient, eyes focusing on the ill-mannered woman. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I just need to steal Dr. Granger for just a moment."

Mrs. Ortecha let loose a heavy sigh, the jingle of jewelry followed. " _Of course_ you do. I've only been here for six hours, what's another two more?"

"Perfect! She'll be right back."

Before Hermione could so much as open her mouth to protest, Cormac had his hand on her arm and he was guiding her from the room with a careful determination that would have bordered sexy but in this moment made her stomach churn. Christ, what did he want? He'd already not so subtly turned her down after spending an entire evening flirting with her, what more _could_ he want? To throw dirt on her casket?

"Dr. McLaggen, what are—"

"Just a moment, Dr. Granger." he didn't even bother looking at her when he spoke, instead guiding her down the busy hallway, thick brow set. "Patient privacy and all."

This was about a patient? What the actual fuck. If this was a patient they could have just discussed it in the hall like 90% of their other work related interactions. "Cormac I—"

"Honestly, do you _ever_ listen?" He clicked his tongue, casting a quick side glance at her with an air of disappointment dripping in his tone. He guided her past the linen's cart, and the nurses station, which was only going to be marginally awkward once he let her go because she was positive half of the entire nursing staff was there and had caught sight of them.

Her Danskos snapped along the linoleum flooring, and just when she was about to demand to know what the fuck was going on, he directed her into the last room at the end of the hall. It was sparse, a room they typically only used in overflow situations as it wasn't exactly equipped with all the proper bells and whistles, but in a pitch it would always suffice.

The motion sensor lights flickered to life, relieving that the room had already been prepped with a saline bag, and IV pole.

Her brow knit as she took in the scene, lips thinning and she turned to look at Cormac with a quirked brow. "Is your patient missing?"

"Nope." He moved around her, thick body brushing against hers as he moved to pull a set of gloves from the box on the wall and he leaned back against the counter, long legs crossing at the ankle.

She wasn't always this slow on the uptake. Truthfully, she was normally pretty quick, but today? Well today her mind struggled to make sense of what was going on. She had ten more hours left on her shift, the gatorade she'd chugged on her way into work had only managed to make her have to pee an endless amount of times, and she was fairly certain she'd left her water bottle at the nurses station.

Thus far in her day, she could only manage to keep putting one foot in front of the other without throwing up, and _really_ didn't feel like playing 'guess what the sexy radiologist is going to do'. Because unless it was whisk her off to the On-Call Room and fuck the hangover out of her, she wasn't particularly interested.

"Look, Cormac, I don't have—"

"Just take a seat, Hermione."

Her hands curled around her tablet, pressing the hard plastic against her hip. On a normal day she would never allow him, or any person to boss her around like that. She'd been raised by a bra burning feminist, and her outspokenness had been not only encouraged, but celebrated. _'Be unapologetically yourself, Minnie'_ her mother would encourage as she pet her hair.

Well right now, she wanted to unapologetically sit her ass down in the chair because while there was a level of uneasy at not know what the fuck he was up to, she didn't entirely care. She was tired. Her feet hurt—hell, her entire body ached, and if every room could dim by about 200 watts, she'd be in a much better place.

She set her tablet down on the stainless tray face down, and made sure her stylus was tucked safely in the pocket of her lab coat before she claimed the pastel blue chair. While it was far from the most comfortable piece of furniture, in this moment it felt like heaven.

Slumping back in the chair, her hands lifted and she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, the slow burst of white stars appearing behind closed eyelids from the pressure. "Cormac… if you could maybe just tell me what you want. I don't fucking feel well and I've got five patients waiting on me after I handle that bitch, who evidently can't read instructions on a pill bottle."

"Well, in case you forgot, I am a doctor."

She was going to kill him. She wouldn't be held liable for murder when she felt like she'd gotten hit by a semi-truck, right? No jury would convict her.

"And it is in my hippocratic oath to help heal the ill and injured, so I am just fulfilling my obligation. Now if you would be so kind and remove your lab coat, we can hurry this along so you can go back to doing your duty and fixing up those lovely souls who wander into UC Davis tonight."

She dropped her hands to her lap, brow furrowing as she blinked the blurriness away to reveal him holding up a thick blue elastic band. His lips lifted in the slightest hint of a smirk, and had she not felt every pulse of her blood in her temples, she might have thought him charming.

Her eyes narrowed, flickering from and towards the IV pole, and like a puzzle piece slotting into the final spot, everything seemed to finally fit together.

"A bolus? Fuck—I haven't done this since…well, since med-school." Leaning forward, she rolled her shoulders and slipped from her lab coat with a newfound enthusiasm. God, she could be so stupid sometimes. She should have done this hours ago, instead of suffering through the beginning of her shift.

Extending her left arm towards him, Cormac's hand curled around her elbow, making quick work of tying the elastic band around her arm and swabbing the crook of her arm with an alcohol prep pad. "Not much of a drinker, are you?"

She flexed her hand several times, watching as her veins thickened beneath her skin, after a few swipes of antiseptic on her skin, Cormac prepped the I.V. cannula by removing the capped end that covered the needle. "I don't make getting drunk much of a habit, if that's what you're asking." He moved with careful precision, finding the easiest vein with his index finger before the needle was inserted and she watched a splash of red blood slip up the bushing as he retracted and removed the needle from her arm, leaving the thin plastic tubing in place. "What about you?"

She had to admit, for a radiologist he was pretty good. Not that he didn't attend just as much schooling as she did, but she would have assumed him out of practice with administering I.V. medications. Truth be told, she relied on her nursing staff to handle the more mundane aspects of her job—this part included, and probably wouldn't have been able to as painlessly set the cannula as he had.

He was good, but he was no Justine. That woman made needles seem like butterfly kisses.

Peeling the plastic backing off the clear tegaderm, he gingerly pressed it over the cannula, careful not to jostle the cannula. Blue eyes peaked up through thick blond lashes, the hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. "Define habit?" Cormac double checked the roller clamp was in place before he picked up a saline flush and uncapped the plunger before twisting it into the port. With a quick flick of his thumb, he released the clamp and his thumb pushed in the plunger, causing the saline to slip into her vein like she'd dipped her arm in icy cold water. She felt an instant cool on the left side of her body.

"More than once a month?" She shifted in the chair, legs slowly crossing, and her Dansko hung on the toes of her foot casually as she watched him work, setting the clamp, removing the flush and putting the saline bag on her port, and releasing the clamp until the fluid dripped in the chamber of the tubing in a steady stream before he raised the pole until it nearly hit the roof. It all seemed so effortless—so well rehearsed she couldn't help but wonder how often he did do this.

Was this a routine thing? Cormac McLaggen, hangover remedy master, _and_ most fuckable doctor in all of U.C. Davis Medical Center? What kind of things happened in radiology where this type of thing was needed? Maybe she should have changed her fellowship…

"Then, I am sad to inform you that no. This is not a habit." His gloves were removed with a snap and he put his trash into the proper receptacles before leaning back on the counter, long legs crossing at the ankle. "Though I have had to cure my fair share of fun nights rather quickly due to busy work days, and when I saw you at pod B earlier, well… you looked like you needed a quick fix."

His stare wasn't judgemental, nor was his tone, but she couldn't help but feel color rise to her cheeks. "I...I wasn't _that_ drunk you know. I remember everything… okay, like 90% of everything, but still, that's pretty good."

"No judgement here, Dr. Granger." His hands lifted in mock surrender, a smile stretching across his plush lips that she absolutely, most definitely had not stopped thinking about since last night. "We're all entitled to let loose a little. I'm just glad I got to be a part of it."

Her eyes dropped and she fiddled with her cannula, finger tracing the plastic tubing against her forearm. "Do I really look _that_ bad?" As if knowing she wasn't at the top of her game wasn't bad enough, knowing that he thought she looked like shit? Well it wasn't exactly going to make it in her Christmas card this year.

She wasn't expecting much—it wasn't like she wanted to date him, or take him home to meet her mom and dad, but something about a handsome man insinuating you looked like you belonged on the set of The Walking Dead as opposed to working in an E.R., well that stung.

In her periphery she could see him move off the counter, closing the distance between them and he knelt before her, large hands clasped together in front of him, elbows on his jutting knees. "Hermione… I—" His voice wavered, though with what she couldn't quiet place, but what followed her name was a heavy sigh that cut straight to that insecure teenage girl that lived inside her.

"Hermione, can you look at me for a second?"

Fuck.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

No, she didn't want to look! She wanted to rip out the I.V. and go hide. She wanted to pretend like she hadn't practically begged him to fuck her last night, only to be turned down and _tucked into bed_ like some god damn child. She wanted to—

"Hermione, can I touch you? Is that alright?" He lifted a hand, gesturing to her thigh, and although she could feel the heat of his touch through the thin layer of cotton, he didn't dare touch her yet.

Her eyes lifted, and she could only give a single nod, lips pressing together. She watched in silence as his hands moved to lay just above her knees, thumb and pinky damn near touching the seat of the chair. Had she not felt like her tongue had swollen two sizes in the last ten seconds, she probably would have made a smart ass comment about it.

Big hands, big gloves, big—

"You're an amazing doctor." Ah. She knew what was coming. Rejection. She could never refer patients for Radiology again. Sorry little Jaxon, not only did your parents give you a dumb name, but that broken arm won't ever heal properly because Dr. Granger absolutely cannot bear to see Dr. McLaggen. Goodbye future MLB career. "You're talented, and funny and _very_ smart. You have been working with what I am going to assume is a killer hangover for the past, what? Three hours?"

"Two."

"Two hours. I would have given up the ghost at hour one with how busy tonight has been. You're a fucking legend. Not only did you manag to not absolutely murder that bitch I just saved you from, but you did it all with grace, a smile, and looking like an absolute goddess."

She was fairly certain people in San Francisco could hear the record scratch that just echoed in her mind. _Goddess?_ What the actual fuck?

"Are you looking your best? I'm not going to sugar coat this, but… no. You look tired, and, well, frankly, hung over. But you're still stunning. Don't assume just because you're hungover that it makes you any less attractive." His thumbs swept across her knees with a gentle squeeze. "Though, I do have to admit… one brown and one black shoe probably isn't your finest moment."

"Are you— _fuck."_ she batted away his hands as his boisterous laughter filled the secluded room and she looked down at her shoes with a groan. Though the colors weren't too far off, there was absolutely a difference. While a good 75% of her patients probably wouldn't notice, she was absolutely positive all of her co-workers did. "Christ, I am never drinking again."

"Well that's no fun." Cormac teased as he rose up to his full height, leaning to check the saline bag. "You're charming when you drink."

"Because I'm not sober?"

Cormac tsked, glancing over his shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I never said that. I enjoy sober Dr. Granger as well, it's just that I have a sneaking suspicion you'd never let me spin you around the dance floor sober."

Correct. Dancing wasn't exactly her go-to activity. She was far from graceful, and found balancing on two steady feet and unmoving earth difficult at times. But had he asked… well she might strongly consider it.

"Probably not, but don't take it personally. I'm not letting anyone spin me around _anything_ anytime soon." Hermione slumped back in the chair, a hand lifting to tuck some of the wayward curls that refused to stay in her bun behind her ear.

Cormac laughed, thick arms crossing over his chest. "Well I suppose it does make me feel a little bit better. Wouldn't want any of your other gentlemen callers getting the one up on me." His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on his biceps, amusement making his blue eyes sparkle.

"Gentleman callers? Really Cormac? How old are you?"

"Old enough to know the term is appropriate for your situation. Though, I am curious… I wasn't aware you were single." She knew this was coming. It would have been impossible to assume he wouldn't ask, even after practically dry humping her on the Badlands dance floor. Everyone knew she had been engaged. It was no secret, especially not when Ron would show up and eat lunch with her a couple times a week. "What happened?"

Her eyes dropped to her hand, thumb instinctively touching her ring finger where a simple gold once adorned her hand. "Ehh… that's a bit complicated." Lies. Ron falling dick first into Susan wasn't really that difficult to comprehend. Though the _why_ bit was a bit more shaky. "Let's just say we didn't work out. Conflicting priorities."

Cormac gave a low hum, lips pressing together, clearly torn between pressing for more details and respecting her privacy. "Should I… apologize?"

"God no."

"Okay good, because it wouldn't have been genuine."

Once upon a time she might have felt bothered. She might have had tears sting the corners of her eyes. She might have mourned the loss of her _dream_ life. But those days were gone. She wouldn't shed another tear over that fucking neanderthal.

Instead, she laughed, because at this point—six months down the road, if she couldn't find at least some humor in that entire fucked up situation, then she never would. "Enough about my fucked up past—what's your story?" Her head cocked to the side, lips still curled in a smile. "Why's there no Mrs. McLaggen."

Ever since she'd started at U.C. Davis, Cormac had been the epitome of cool. He almost had this air of confidence that surrounded him—like he truly didn't give a fuck what people thought of him, like he lifes his life carefree and casual.

But right now? At the mere mention of a hypothetical spouse, Cormac looked… bothered. His hand moved to rub the back of his hair, blue eyes dropping to the floor and he shifted weight between the balls of his feet like an awkward child. "Well, that's actual—"

_Buzz… buzz…_

The distinct page emanated from Cormac's pocket, one any physician within the Medical Center was all too familiar with.

Snagging his pager from his hip, Cormac's tongue brushed across his lips as his eyes flickered over the small device. "Ahh… well, this is a conversation that will have to wait for another day." Wiggling the pager, his brows rose as his eyes found her once more. "Duty calls, I'm afraid."

Oh. Right… they were at work. Weren't they?

"You'll be done here shortly." Pushing off the counter, he tapped his finger against the rapidly deflating saline bag. "Think you can handle cleaning up?"

"After twelve years of school, I fucking hope so." Hermione flexed her fingers, carefully twisting her arm as she pushed to sit straighter in the chair. "Thanks… by the way. For last night… and this." She lifted her free hand, gesturing to the cannula.

His eyes crinkled, wide smile stretching across his lips. "Anytime, Dr. Granger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from: [ Gorgeous by Taylor Swift ](https://youtu.be/EsLmvJjYBkg)
> 
> huge thank you to [Cecemarty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecemarty/pseuds/cecemarty), she is my nurse fact checker and helped me make sure I knew the steps on how to administer an IV. :) and of course, the every lovely [Disenchantedglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disenchantedglow/) for betaing the heck out of this chapter.
> 
> I hope ya'll are enjoying! especially you [Bionically!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically)
> 
> until next time. xx
> 
> aesthetic credit to [LumosLyra!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LumosLyra/pseuds/LumosLyra)
> 
> find me on facebook!


	3. and you're the kind of guy the ladies want

'Come out with us, Hermione' Lavender had said.

'It'll be fun! Cedric's bringing a friend' she'd promised.

'Patrick's a _sure thing_.'

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

It was all fucking bullshit, and now that she was past the point of buzzed and well on her way to drunk, she was more than a little put out about the idea of being the third wheel to her work-girlfriend (as Harry put it), and her latest flavor of the week.

 _Patrick_ , if that fucker even existed, was sick according to Cedric. Which meant while Lavender was off in the bathroom with the posh programmer, likely getting fucked six ways from Sunday, she got to sit at the bar entirely and utterly alone.

Sure, there were people around her. And yes the bartender was friendly enough, but it wasn't the same.

She was promised a _good_ time. The kind that ended with drunken kisses, and day old regrets. She was promised sex, and frankly, unless she intended on going home with Phil the hawaiian shirt-wearing weirdo, or hipster Aron with one 'A' (he made sure to let everyone at the bar know this… several times) her chances of getting laid were looking bleak.

Drunk Hermione was unlike sober Hermione in many ways.

She was a bit louder. Sassier. More willing to shop on Amazon without remorse, and tonight? Tonight she was less content with taking her licks and heading home empty handed.

No, drunk Hermione was set on seeing this night through, which is precisely why she ended up sending that first text message.

> **Can I set an appointment with you tomorrow Dr. McLaggen?**
> 
> **One bolus and maybe some zofran?**
> 
> **I'm technically off, but I'll come in if you promise to wear those maroon scrubs.**

She fired off the _three_ messages before her mind could even comprehend the first one. It was almost as if her thumbs were moving independently from her brain, like they had a direct link to her uninhibited subconscious and were bound and determined to only listen to her drunken inner goddess.

The chat bubble appeared, ellipsis bouncing menacingly, teasing her with the possibility of what his response might be, and she picked up her vodka soda and took a hasty drink. Liquid courage. Or perhaps the alcohol would just numb her enough to make her forget all about this in the morning.

She was off work for the next three days. While under normal circumstances the small break was something she cherished, this time around it was daunting. Three days of solitude. Three days of sitting in her condo with her cat, and take-out. Three days of cleaning, lounging and being lost in her own toxic inner monologue . Three days of being unable to stare at the muscular backside of a particular radiologist who refused to leave her mind.

She really ought to charge him rent, considering how he'd taken up residence in her consciousness.

Since meeting up at Badlands he was all Hermione could think about. The way his body felt against hers as they danced. The feeling of his arms around her waist. The warmth of his breath across sweat-stricken skin. Every opportunity her mind was not humming from workor random personal endeavours, it always drifted back to him.

Between patients. While charting. When she got into her car after a long shift, and god help her if she actually needed a Radiology consult while on the clock. She practically prayed he would respond instead of Dr. Corner.

> _Hermione?_

One word. One fucking word— her name at that—and her heart fluttered.

It was stupid. Juvenile. She was a grown woman with an advanced degree. A fucking _doctorate_ for Christ's sake! Surely she should react more maturely than the purely pre-teen response of giddy that burst to life inside her.

Practically squirming in her chair, she set her glass down and took a couple deep breaths, trying to calm her runaway emotions before she got too excited over a one word response.

> **Last time I checked, yes.**

She chewed her bottom lip and stifled a smug chuckle that bubbled up her throat, unable to resist laughing at her own cleverness while several drinks in. She watched the chat screen eagerly, waiting for his reply, hanging off every bobbing of the chat bubbles that bounced enticingly on her screen.

> **So is that a yes to the maroon scrubs tomorrow?**

Just as suddenly as they appeared, the bubbles vanished. _Poof!_ Off her screen, and she was left to stare at the meager messages already exchanged. The drink-induced confidence she had felt seconds earlier waivered, a maelstrom of doubt and confusion pushing it away, twisting through the fog that clouded her mind.

He'd flirted with her all week when they did cross paths. Subtle innuendos, smirks sharp enough to cut, and his eyes? He'd flash those big beautiful blue eyes at her and she could have sworn she saw some lewd fantasies behind them.

The potential of having the Medical Center's resident sex god bed her after what felt like years of mediocre sex followed by months of unintended celebacy was both exciting and terrifying. Like riding on the back of a motorcycle. She needed the thrill and fear. She needed release—both mentally and physically and Cormac was the perfect man for the job.

He'd practically volunteered! Sure, he didn't say the exact words, but body language counted for something, right? It had to.

The spaghetti string of thoughts came to a screeching halt when the once silent phone began to vibrate, pulling her back to this plane of existence.

Across her iPhone big bold letters read: CORMAC.

Her eyes widened and she gulped. Why would he… _call_? What sort of millennial was he? Didn't he know voice calls were reserved for parents, emergencies and businesses? Booty calls were obviously text based only! It was like some sort of unwritten rule. 'Being a Shitty Adult: 101'.

Clearing her throat, as if something so simple could remove the slur of her speech, she pressed the large green answer icon before placing the speaker against her ear. "Well hello."

"How did you get my number, Hermione?"

Oh. Yeah. That.

Leaning back, she reclined in her chair, letting her knees press against the bar wall as she picked up her glass to take a lazy sip. "Uh… Well, you see—that's a secret."

"Tracey in Peds?"

"Nope." She popped her p for good measure.

"Hannah A?"

Hannah? Good god, he had better taste that _that,_ right? Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head, momentarily forgetting he couldn't see her. "Negative."

"Gabriella? Parvati? Emmeline?"

Jesus. He was literally working his way down the female nursing staff in the E.R., and while technically it _shouldn't_ bother her, something about the way he could rattle off their names so easily, like he was intimately acquainted with each and every one (which he was rumored to be) got under her skin.

"From Poppy," She interrupted before he could move onto another department, tongue sweeping across her lips. "I went through your personnel file and got it yesterday."

She could make out the sound of mattress springs creaking and what sounded like the shuffle of bedding. "You went through my file?" He sounded surprised, his voice light and airy in disbelief.

"Don't flatter yourself. I also got Jordan's number too." Not a lie. But she didn't need to let him know it was because he'd bought Ron's old Xbox off her and she lost his contact to arrange pick up this weekend. "But… yes. I went through your file. Nice reviews from Minerva by the way. Very glowing. She can be a bit of a bitch at times, so that's a feat—also, don't tell her I said that."

Lifting her near empty glass, she gestured to the bartender, sloppy smile gracing her lips. "One more please... Lime wedge this time though. Thank you—sorry Cormac, anyways, is that a yes to the scrubs?"

Back on track.

Operation ' _Get Laid_ ' was in full swing, and with the liquid courage flowing through her veins, she knew she needed to strike while the iron was hot. "Because if you're really opposed to the maroon, that navy pair you have is a close second to my favorite."

"Where are you?"

"Do you always answer questions with other questions?"

"Do _you_ always go drinking alone?"

"How do you know I'm alone?"

"If you weren't, you wouldn't have answered my call."

Touché.

If Cedric's friend had showed up, she probably wouldn't have texted him— _probably_. But she would never know, because she _was_ alone, and getting real fucking tired of taking out her sexual frustrations on silicone and her fingers.

"Fine." She sounded like a brat, like some unhappy thirteen year old shit-head who just got her phone taken away. But not because she was irritated with him. No, Cormac was fine. He'd guessed the truth—how easily he'd spun this conversation around on her—forcing her to admit that yes, she _was_ alone and she clearly had shit friends.

Well, Harry wasn't bad, but he was on-shift, so it hardly counted.

"No, I don't _always_ go drinking alone." Shifting forward, Hermione mouthed a quick 'thank you' to the bartender and took a hasty sip of her freshly refilled drink., The vodka no longer seemed to burn as it made its way down her throat. That should have been concerning. That should have given her pause. But instead, she was slightly glad, because it meant that any future drinks would go down a tad easier. "Technically, I'm not alone. I came out with Lavender but she's—"

"Lavender? As in the blonde with the butterfly tattoo on her lower back?" He was on the move, footsteps thumping with each breath. "What's her last name… something with a B."

"Brown, yes her— _wait_ How do you know about the butterfly tattoo?" Her stomach clenched as her teeth sank into the fleshy part of the inside her cheek,trying to push back the runaway feelings of jealousy that bubbled inside.

There was no way. No fucking way Lavendar hooked up with Cormac. First off, she had a gigantic mouth. She would have _never_ been able to keep sleeping with the Medical Center's most eligible bachelor a secret. Secondly, Lavender wouldn't! Mainly because she was more than privy to Hermione's massive crush on him, and while a loud mouth and a sassy bitch, Lavender _was_ a good friend. Third, see number fucking one.

"Because everyone knows! She damn near flashed me her backside when she—" his voice trailed off, continuing on about her showing it to practically every damn member of the Medical Center staff after she'd gotten it last summer, frankly, she didn't care. Not because he wasn't right. No he absolutely was. Lavender had gotten it on a whim, and was quite eager to display her 'ink' as she called it. No, it was the slow seeping warmth of relief that emanated from the center of her chest with the knowledge that he hadn't bedded her that made the world slip away.

It shouldn't matter.

It _didn't_ matter.

But…

Okay maybe a little. Maybe she was glad to know that while he'd supposedly slept his way through every damn department, he hadn't claimed her friend as one of the notches on his bedpost. So what? Sue her.

"Earth to Hermione." The distant jingle of keys brought her back from the momentary relief. "Where are you?"

"Uh… The Torch Club."

"Okay, good. Don't leave. I'll be there in ten minutes—tops."

Her brows rose, nearly hitting her hairline and suddenly her mouth felt parched despite the numerous libations she'd enjoyed. "Wait— _what?_ You're—"

_Beep—beep—beep._

Her phone signaled the end of her call, and she pulled it back from her face, staring dumbfounded at their text messages. This was a good thing, him coming to pick her up. This was precisely what she wanted, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that this might not pan out the way she'd hope.

Mainly because that liquid courage she felt moments earlier was gone.

* * *

"It's not steaaaaaling."

She was drunk.

Not just tispy. Well past buzzed. Full blown, flat out drunk. And Cormac? Cormac was her knight in shining armor. Except he was in a hoodie...and jeans… and worn Chuck Taylors. But even without chainmail and a metal breastplate, he was still fucking hot.

From the time he'd hung up on her until he walked through the door of the Torch Club she'd managed to hastily down not one, but two more vodka sodas—because liquid courage. _Because_ even if Cormac didn't show up, at least she was going to have a good time.

But he did.

He walked over, keys spinning on his index finger. He looked dog tired, rings around his eyes like some adorable little racoon, but he was kind.

He asked to take her home, offered his hoodie when they went outside, and even buckled her in his Passat like some sort of overbearing parent. He didn't need her address this time, which was probably good because she wasn't sure if she could remember her exact building number (1413, or 1431?).

"I never said it was," He laughed as he slipped off her socks like he did that first night he took her home. "I just said going through my personnel file was unethical."

Hermione was laying back on her bed, curls spread out, haloing her head, arms haphazardly resting on her mattress above her. " _Pfft_. Ethics. Subjective non-sense anyways." Sober Hermione definitely wouldn't agree with that. "Whass-it matter anyways? You don't like me having your number?"

"On the contrary. I don't mind at all." He rose to a tall knee, hand gently tapping the outside of her thigh to get her attention. "I would have been happy to give it to you myself had you asked."

Lifting her head, which felt like it weighed approximately six thousand pounds, a lazy smile slipped over her painted lips. Despite that floaty feeling that only a stiff drink could induce, there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her insides coil and twist.

No, he wasn't looking at her. Not like any other man she'd ever been with. It was almost as if he could actually _see_ her. Like he knew her inner desires, fears, and needs. Like he might understand that high-strung goddess inside her who demanded to be the center of someone's world, but have the autonomy of being her own person at the same time. Like he could decode the complexities of being a working thirty something year old woman who wasn't prepared to push pause on her career for the sake of following societal norms.

Like he didn't just want her, but wanted to get to know her. And all of that, combined with the gentle brush of fingertips across his cheek as he tucked stray curls behind her ear, well it was _almost_ too much to comprehend. "God, you're handsome."

"Thank you." _Shit._ Did she say that outloud? "You're pretty cute yourself, Dr. Granger."

Pink darkened her already drink-flushed cheeks and she pushed her curls back across the crown of her head in some desperate attempt to look effortlessly cool. She could do this. She could be a seductress. "So… does that mean you might stay the night tonight?"

In her periphery she could see his hand on the mattress twitch, his fingers flexing as if to contain some impulsive decision she longed he'd make. But judging by the almost crestfallen softness that suddenly invaded his eyes, she knew what he was about to say was likely not going to leave drunk, nor sober Hermione happy or sexually fulfilled.

"Not tonight, I'm afraid." He smiled, sympathetic and soft. She wanted to hate him, to be flustered by him turning her down, but it was hard to—especially when he looked at her like that. So kind, and gentle— _fuck._ Why was he so god-damn nice?!"Let's just get you dressed for bed, yeah?"

She didn't want to get ready for bed.

She didn't want to go to sleep alone.

She didn't _want_ him to be a fucking nice guy.

Cormac was a ladies' man, wasn't he? He'd slept with nearly all of the nursing staff! Tales of his prowess were well recited, and a man with a body like his certainly didn't _not_ put it to good use. None of this made any sense, though, frankly nothing made a whole lot of sense in her current state.

She watched him open her drawers with a familiarity that both embarrassed and excited her, and he pulled a large UC Berkeley hoodie from her drawer—ahh… her undergrad years. Even now the well worn garment brought a warmth to her heart. "You're a hard case to crack, McLaggen."

Cormac cocked his head to the side, confusion coloring his face as he approached her once more. "What do you mean?"

Using what little abdominal muscles she did possess, Hermione sat up and closed her eyes, and waited for the world to stop spinning before continuing as she fumbled to pull her shirt off over her head. "You just… I just don't get it." Yanking the cotton blend over her elbows, she yanked her head free from the neck hole and tossed her tee on the floor. "You're just a… you're an an-...anen...anemone—"

"I think you mean anomaly." Laughter tinted his words as he turned around, averting his gaze now that she was down to her (good) bra.

"Whatever." Snatching the hoodie from the mattress, she pulled it on, letting the familiar warmth of the old sweatshirt envelope her as she fell back on the mattress once more to work on shimming out of her jeans. "My point is you're odd."

That deep baritone chuckle filled her room once more, and Hermione bit her bottom lip, fingers pausing at her belt as she looked up to watch his shoulders shake. Why did everything he do have to be so damn attractive? Laughing, talking—fucking _breathing_. It was all like it was specifically designed to check her proverbial boxes.

"I am going to take that as a complement."

"As you should." Her legs kicked wildly, the flapping sound of her denim shaking to and fro filling the room before they finally hit the floor accompanied by a small noise of frustration.

"You decent?"

She could answer that so many ways, but she could only take the crushing blow of rejection so many times before her ego was mortally wounded. And as much as she felt like shooting her shot (yet again) she preferred not to bleed out tonight. At least not while he was in her condo.

Wiggling back on the bed, she slipped beneath the plush comforter and tucked it around her waist, hands smoothing across the soft cotton. "As much as I'll ever be." Her tongue swept across her lips, gaze glued to his form, watching as he turned around, that same softness in his eyes from before.

His dimpled smile seemed to grow wider, if even possible, as he took her in. While she was fairly certain her eyeliner was smeared, her hair was more frizz than curl, and the sweatshirt did her figure no favors, she could pretend, even if just for this moment, that his look meant something.

This— _this_ was the look people dreamed of. The kind she had hoped to find etched across Ron's face. The kind that never came.

And now, written so plainly in Cormac's expression, it frightened a small part of her because as much as she wanted him, she wasn't entirely sure she was ready for whatever _that_ look was.

Not now.

Not yet.

"Can I get you anything?" His hand swept through his cropped curls as he approached the side of her bed, moving cautiously, as if she were some sort of stray kitten as opposed to a very willing and consenting woman. "Water? Tylenol? Motrin?"

She shook her head, eyes drifting away from him to look down at the blanket, possibilities of what she wanted to ask— _beg_ floating through her mind. "No… thank you though."

"Of course. I'm happy to help."

_Help._

Right. Because that's all this was. Despite his flirting and sly glances. Behind the tempting smile and press of his hand on her lower back, all he wanted to do was… help.

"Cormac?" Her eyes lifted, finding him still unmoved from the spot just a few feet from the side of her bed and she bit her bottom lip. She shouldn't ask. It was probably too forward and he'd already made it clear he wasn't wanting to do _that_ but… the prospect of being alone, even without physical intimacy, sounded fucking horrible.

That was probably the worst part of ending her near decade long relationship. How utterly lonely it made her feel. Ron was horrid in the end. A coward, worthless, and a liar. But at least he was a body to curl up next to at the end of a tough shift.

"Yeah?" His hands slipped into his front pockets, brows lifting, a wayward golden curl hanging across his forehead in that oh-so charming look reminiscent of James Dean. God, it was really unfair how handsome he was.

"Can you… would you maybe—" Her voice wavered, cracking with uncertainty and her fingers plucked at the edge of her comforter as she cleared her throat in some meek attempt to gather her bearings. "Can you stay until I'm asleep?"

It was absurd, really, she knew this. And wholly inappropriate, and tomorrow she'd likely be embarrassed by even asking, but right now? Right now she just didn't want to be alone anymore. "This isn't sexual. I just… I mean unless you want it to be, but honest I just don't—"

"Yes."

One single word had never sounded so fucking amazing before. Looking up, she found he'd edged just a tad closer towards the bed, within arm's reach if she wanted to lean out and touch him. Her eyes found his, and that softness she saw seconds earlier was replaced by something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

His eyes sparkled in the soft light, happiness lined with that unidentified glimmer as he looked down at her. "Where should I…?" His brow cocked, eyes reluctantly leaving hers to look around her bedroom, seeking out a place for him to sit while she drifted off to the land of nod.

"Here." She scooted over on the mattress, leaving plenty of room for him to claim the space without having to be particularly close to her. Not that she'd mind if he were close, but… one thing at a time, right? Baby steps. Clearly running head first into impulsive decisions wasn't working for him.

Cormac slipped off his shoes, taking the spot on the bed beside her, opting to lay on top of her comforter as opposed to underneath with her. She didn't mind though, because once the bedside lamp was turned off, his hand found his way to hers. Thick fingers laced between her own, and the methodic sweep of his thumb across the back of her hand a metronome she set her breath to.

Though he didn't lay directly beside her, the soft dip in her mattress and warmth from his body was welcomed. As much as she longed to close the space between them, to curl up under his wing and find comfort in his hold, she made sure to respect the boundaries he'd so clearly set.

Maybe he didn't like her like that. Maybe he was just a flirt.

Though it was hard to resign herself to that fate when she could have sworn she felt the gentle brush of his lips across her brow just as she finally managed to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from: [ ME! by Taylor Swift feat. Brendon Urie ](https://youtu.be/FuXNumBwDOM)
> 
> I like saucy drunk vulnerable Hermione. I also like gentleman AF Cormac. sue me.
> 
> until next time. xx
> 
> find me on facebook!
> 
> aesthetic credit to Lumos Lyra. She's a boss ass witch.


	4. luck of the draw only draws the unlucky

If two nasty hangovers within two weeks weren't enough to convince Hermione she should absolutely never drink again, she didn't know what was.

The headaches weren’t worth it, her bank account wasn’t exactly thrilled with her nights spent at the bar, and frankly, she no longer possessed the iron clad stomach of a twenty-one year old.

Though, she would be hard-pressed to deny that wanting to go out and over-indulge wasn’t entirely centered around the fact that it seemed to be the only fucking time she actually got anywhere with Cormac.

Sure, they spoke at work, but professional discussions about how far a patient had managed to lodge a foriegn object in their colon wasn’t exactly titillating foreplay. Yes, he  _ technically  _ still flirted with her—catching her in the halls, sly smiles when in the same room together, and then there was that staff meeting where he sat directly across from her.

But none of it seemed to matter, because her attempts at inviting him over, or out, or really even just grabbing a coffee seemed to fall on deaf ears.

It was as if he enjoyed this eternal cat and mouse game, and as fun as it was to get strung along, she was really losing her patience.

The icing on the proverbial shit-cake though was when she logged into Instagram that morning, intent on wasting 10 minutes between patients browsing her feed.

She wanted to see cute cat photos, or pictures of someone's meal. She was even willing to settle for those nature photos that Neville was always so intent on posting (because who the fuck actually enjoyed hiking?). 

What she absolutely, one hundred percent did  _ not _ want to see was the sonogram picture that Molly  _ ‘my-Ronniekins-can-do-no-wrong’ _ Weasley posted.

**Grandbaby number four on the way and a new daughter-in-law? Best day ever. Congrats @KingWealsey & @SusieB.**

She’d sworn off drinking after her last night out two weeks ago, but today? 

Today she wanted to drown her sorrows in the bottom of a Fireball bottle and call out of work for a week. 

Today she wanted to drive into Citrus Heights and egg his fucking car. She wanted to phone Molly and tell her what an absolute dickhead her son was. She  _ wanted _ to fucking scream, or cry—fuck, probably both.

Yet despite the impulsive need to fuck up Ron’s life as much as he’d fucked up hers, she was on-shift for the next ten hours. As much as she wanted to wallow in self misery and drink, or binge eat an entire cake to mask her emotions, she couldn’t. Not yet at least.

So she opted to take a much better break. Using the age old  _ my ex-fiance is having another baby and engaged card,  _ she got Angelina to cover her for the next two hours, and was laying in the On Call Room licking her wounds on the top bunk.

She was over Ron—long over him. She didn’t give a fuck what, or  _ who _ he did, or didn’t do anymore. He was absolutely no longer her problem, and this fire she felt inside wasn’t jealousy or despair. 

No, she was angry. Fucking pissed was more like it, because he had clearly moved on—technically that part had happened whilst they were still together, but semantics aside, he was in a budding new relationship, enjoying his life. And she was still woefully stuck in the same place he’d left her.

Alone.

Sexually frustrated.

And furious.

She wasn’t a bad person. She paid her bills, held the door open for the elderly and disabled. She was a fucking doctor, saving lives and all that bullshit. She even returned her carts to the little cart corral at Safeway! While she didn’t attend church and was far from viriginal, she knew she held more ticks in the ‘good’ side of the column than ‘evil’ which is why this was all so fucking baffling.

She  _ deserved _ happiness. She was owed it after the past year, but she felt incapable of obtaining it at this point. It was truly beginning to feel like the world was out to get her. Like this was all some sick joke by some bored deity hell-bent on ruining her life.

Shifting on the too hard mattress, Hermione fluffed the horribly flat pillow, trying to at least make her lie in a tad more comfortable so she didn’t have a kink in her neck the rest of her shift. She’d plugged her phone in on the charger across the room, self enforcing a much needed social media break.

When she wasn’t stewing over pictures on Ron’s instagram, she was snooping on Cormac, and as much as she appreciated the gym pictures he posted, she knew looking at either man’s profile was far from helpful in her current state.

Pressing her face into the scratchy cotton, she inhaled deeply, prepared to let go of a scream that built up over the past ten minutes of her lying in the darkened room. Perhaps it would help? Some sort of physical release, since clearly her preferred method of release wasn’t panning out.

Just as the air paused in her throat, lungs fully expanded, the sharp keycard beep broke the silence of the room and bright fluorescent lighting cut across the darkness followed by the high tinkle of feminine laughter.

“—you’re so funny. I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Half tempted to let out an irritated sigh, Hermione closed her eyes tighter, telling herself if she just laid still and pretended not to hear them, then maybe she could trick herself into believing they weren’t  _ really  _ there. She’d done it countless times, use this super human ability to put up mental barriers and ignore bad situations. It’s exactly how she made it through all of her second year of undergrad with Tracey as a roommate.

“Yes, because clearly that’s what I’m known for. My humor.” 

“Well I never said it’s the only thing I liked about you, Cormac.”

_ Cormac. _

It was a name that had quite literally filled her thoughts every spare moment of the day, a thread woven into her darkest fantasies, and now, he was in this broom closet of an On-Call room with another woman.

She had no reason to be jealous, or upset. She was absolutely nothing to him—just a colleague, and he owed her not a  _ lick _ of fidelity, but the blow was nearly enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Like a gut punch, she was instantly reeling with unfounded feelings of betrayal. 

“Now, now Trace—’” Cormac tisked, the sound of shuffling feet was followed by the bump or something, or rather, someone hitting the small nightstand. “—remember, we’re at work.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before.”

If Hermione were a cat, in that particular moment, she would have been that shitty Halloween caricature cat. Hackles raised, hissing, pure and utter bitch. She wanted to climb down from this bunkbed with more grace than she knew she possessed and give him a piece of her mind. She wanted to tell him off for leading her on when he  _ clearly  _ had been making moves elsewhere. She wanted to tell him he was a prick for being so fucking charming, but more than anything else, she just wanted to fucking cry.

If her lie wasn’t already on the verge of falling apart with her ex-fiance’s news, this only seemed to make that gray cloud that was hanging over her head darker.

Grabbing the pillow beside her, she pulled it over her head, trying to drown out the sound of a conversation she did not care to listen to—or possibly suffocate herself, she hadn’t quite decided yet. Through the cotton, she could hear their muffled voices and the filtered sound of feminine laughter, sounding more and more like nails on a chalkboard the longer it continued.

What finally pushed her to resolve to getting the fuck out of the room and putting much needed distance between Cormac (and the flavor of this week) was when the bunk bed shifted from the weight of someone crawling onto the mattress below. 

Her internal siren sounded, loud and piercing, cutting right through her anxiety-laden need to stay invisible. It continued to blare at her making her new objective very fucking clear.

Flee.

Run. 

Get the hell out of the room,  _ now. _

Tossing the pillow off her head, Hermione faked an almost comically loud yawn as she sat up, not even bothering to pretend to be sleepy as she swung her legs over the side of the bunk bed and hopped down, narrowly missing Cormac who was standing beside the bunk bed.

His eyes were wide, and even in the dimly lit room, she could make out the shock, or possibly fear burning deep within his crystal blue irises. “Hermione?”

Her hands were collecting her curls, intent on twisting the mass into a knot on the top of her head. She should ignore him, pretend like she didn’t hear, but she couldn’t. Not when the room was the size of a fucking broom closet, and certainly not when she felt two sets of eyes burning holes into her skin.

Tying the elastic band around her hair, she forced a smile on her lips. “Dr. McLaggen, funny meeting you here.” She gave her top knot a quick tug, securing the band against her scalp as she craned her neck to peer into the bottom bunk. “Tracey.”

“Dr. Granger.” Tracey fucking Davis. ICU Nurse, and grade A cunt. Hermione didn’t dislike a lot of nurses, they all caught the brunt of patients' anger, and she really valued their dedication, but Tracey? Tracy could go fuck herself. The brunette nurse had made no qualms about questioning her diagnosis and treatment plans  _ in front _ of patients when Hermione was first hired, but she also had a nasty habit of  _ forgetting _ to chart notes in a timely manner.

He could have (and previously had) picked anyone. Fucking  _ anyone _ and Hermione wouldn’t have cared… as much. Padma in peds, Hannah at Pharmacy A, or even Longbottom! But Tracey?  _ Tracey? _ No. That was unforgivable. 

“Hermione I—”

“Oh would you look at the time.” Hermione cut off Cormac, tapping her Apple Watch before darting around him to snatch her phone off the charger. “I better get back on shift. You know, patients, and medical… stuff.”

She could feel unwanted emotions bubble up, making her tone too tinny and sharp. Each step made that band that had suddenly appeared around her chest tighten, and when she reached the door handle, her fingers trembling as they curled around the cold metal, and she nearly caved to the emotional distress that this bullshit day had brought forth.

But she wouldn’t do that.

Not now. Not ever.

Ron wasn’t worth a single tear, and Cormac? Well clearly he wasn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from: [Daylight by Taylor Swift ](https://youtu.be/u9raS7-NisU)
> 
> Short chapter, but here ya go. Also, look at that artwork by the amazingly talented [bionically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/works)
> 
> until next time. xx


	5. he looks up, grinning like a devil

She hadn't been avoiding Cormac per se.

Okay, yes she might have turned and sprinted the opposite way down the hall during her last shift when she spotted him.

Yes, she was leaving him on read.

And yes, technically, she had turned off her ringer after his third phone call, but she absolutely was not avoiding Cormac.

No.

She was hiding from the world. Namely, his gender, because fuck them. Fuck Ron and his inability to keep his dick in his pants. Fuck her good for nothing rotton luck with men. Fuck Cormac for being so stupidly handsome and making her think she had a shot at bedding him. You know what? Fuck everyone! Fuck Sharon next door for having that stupid yappy poodle who never shut the fuck up, and Fuck Tracey.

From where Hermione stood, barefoot in her kitchen in a pair of joggers that had seen better days and a threadbare camisole she should have retired three seam rips ago, everyone could fuck right off and go away.

She had four days off work.

Ninety-six hours of uninterrupted time, during which she planned to scorn the world and put herself in a wine and carb coma.

The opening ceremonies for which were already underway. On her drive home she swung by Round Table and picked up a large—yes, large italian garlic supreme, garlic parmesan twists, and cinnamon twists. If she was going to go hermit for the next four days, she figured she might as well be adequately prepared with pizza for dinner and breakfast tomorrow.

With the first two meals planned, it only left her alcoholic beverage of choice and she happened to have a mediocre bottom of rosé sitting in her fridge with her name on it.

Plans with Lavender were canceled, a was shower taken, and three slices were already settling in her belly as she popped the cork to the wine, chewing thoughtfully on a garlic coated twist as she poured herself a pint glass full.

She'd debated just drinking straight from the bottle—after all she'd intended on polishing it off—but figured she could at least put a little bit of showmanship into her preparation. It was bad enough she was eating straight from the cardboard containers, she needed to prove she wasn't a heathen, right?

Greasy fingerprints smeared across the faded Sacramento Kings logo as she picked up her glass, intent on taking a sip before meandering back to her couch so she could finish up the episode of The New Girl. She was far from timely in terms of watching the show, but Netflix had the whole season, and she had nothing but time over the next four days.

It seemed though the first thirst quenching sip would have to wait, because just as she began her short trek towards the nest of throw pillows and blankets she had assembled on the couch, there was a loud knock at her door.

Knock knock knock!

Hermione froze just behind the couch, eyes drifting to the door as she furrowed her brow, lips still puckered in that 'about to take a sip' towards the rim of her glass. She wasn't expecting anyone. Lavender was on shift till 2am. Harry was in Tahoe with his boyfriend, and she'd picked up dinner on the way home.

Knock knock knock!

Maybe it was a solicitor. If she ignored them they'd go away, right?

Or it could be those religious boys canvassing the neighborhood. The Midtown Facebook group she'd joined was blowing up with complaints (and some lewd comments) about them.

Knock knock knock!

Though, based on the near frenzied pounding at her door, she wagered to guess it wasn't some vacuum or deity salesman. No, whoever was there knew she was home, and evidently needed her to answer—now.

"Alright, alright. Just a second!" Hermione shouted as she finally moved towards the door, carefully setting her glass down on her entry table so it didn't slosh. She wiped her fingers across her thigh, pulling the grease from the pads of her fingers before she twisted the deadbolt free and opened the door. "Wha—"

The word died on her tongue, vocal chords seizing, unable to let out even a single consensent as the mystery guest behind her door was revealed to be none other than the man she'd been trying to avoid for the past several days.

Cormac.

Cormac Fucking McLaggen was at her doorstep.

He was still in his scrubs, though he'd added a charcoal gray zip-up hoodie to fight off the cold. He looked tired, deep bags underneath his eyes only managing to bring out the blue, and the golden curls slightly disheveled. His fist was hanging mid-air, fingers curled, prepped to rap against her door again, and judging by the startled expression, he hadn't expected her to actually open. "...Hi."

Hi?

Fucking Hi?!

That was his opener? Like she hadn't interrupted some weird kinky game he was moments away from playing with Tracey in the on-call room, like it hadn't been painfully fucking obvious that he'd been leading her on. Like he assumed she didn't know!

The maelstrom of anger and embarrassment swirled in the center of her chest, making her stomach clench as she fought back the urge to either laugh or cry. She clearly needed an outlet for the brewing emotions that had done nothing but continue to simmer to a low boil since that fateful day.

An audible gulp filled the stretching silence between them, and she watched his Adam's apple run the length of his throat, pink tongue peaking out to dampen his lips. "Can… I—uh… Can I come in?"

Fuck him.

Fuck him and his stupid handsome face.

He could turn right around with his pathetic hi and Can I come in?.

Her lips pursed, fingers tightening their hold around the side of the door and she did the only thing she could think of at that moment—shake her head no. Not a single noise was made, no explanation, and absolutely no sniffles. No, she simply shook her head so quickly that the messy bun flopped across her head like some fish on land before she moved to shut the door for an abrupt escape.

She wasn't ready to face him, not yet. Not when the wound was still fresh, and certainly not when she was attempting to deal with the confusing emotions paired with Ron and Susan's announcement.

Though, before the door could meet the frame, Cormac's thick fingers appeared around the side, and he eased it back open with a gentle push. "Hermione, please. I'd like to explain—"

"You don't need to." She wanted to hold her ground, to push him out and tell him to go away, but when his toes edged the entrance to her condo, thick torso filling up the entire bloody doorway, perched and ready to move into her space at a moment's notice, she knew she was going to have to relent.

Because while she was absolutely not ready to do this, it appeared he was.

"But I do… can I just—" He gave a quick jut of his chin into her home, voice trailing off with clear intention. "It'll only take a minute and if you want me to leave after then I'll happily show myself out."

Her resolve slipped when she caught his eye, the endless pools of blue looked… dimmed. The light that normally made them glitter was off, and instead of the happy-go-lucky appearance, he looked almost sad.

Selfishly, the little devil on her shoulder preened, as if to say "good, you should feel bad" but that angel on her other shoulder? It made her feel guilty. It made her want to hear him out.

Her teeth sunk into the inside of her bottom lip, chewing on the sensitive flesh as she eyed him, letting the silence stretch between them until that too felt weighted and uncomfortable. "Ugh. Fine." Her hand tossed in the air, a small growl slipping up her throat. "You've got five minutes."

It was more than he deserved, but likely less than he wanted, though she would never know based on the near apathy that masked his emotions. He nodded, moving into her condo and letting the door shut behind him.

Hermione spun on balls of her teeth, toes burning against the carpet at the abrupt motion and she moved over to the couch, claiming the farthest spot away from him. She crossed her arms over her chest and her fingers drummed an uneven rhythm as she watched him move apprehensively to join her on the couch.

His fingers fidgeted with the cuffs of his hoodie sleeve, tugging and twisting the fabric. "I'm not sure… what you think happened, but I can assure you it's not what it looked like." His eyes dropped to his lap, speaking to his knee caps as if they were going to give him the courage to come clean with her. "Tracey and I are—"

Those sirens sounded in her head again. Loud and angry. They screamed at her, reminding her that she didn't want to know the particulars of their relationship—in fact, she didn't want to know about any relationship he might be in and with whom because… because it wasn't her.

"Cormac—" His name rushed off her tongue in a feeble attempt to prevent her from hearing what she suspected might shatter her heart (and ego) into a million tiny pieces. "I… uh.. Look, I don't want you to explain."

"You don't?"

"Yes…" She didn't, right? "No? Look I don't really know. I'm upset. There's just a lot going on for me right now, and I just… you're not… we're not… I mean, ugh!" Why was this so difficult? They were both adults, and clearly this situation had to have come up for him before based on his legendary bedroom prowess. "Look you can fuck whoever you want. You're not my boyfriend or anything, and I just… I mean Tracey wouldn't be my first choice, but—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—what?" Cormac coughed, eyes bulging as he leaned forward, elbows to knees as he craned closer, as if the two foot distance prevented him from properly understanding her. "I'm sorry, can you... Can you repeat that?"

"Tracey… you were going to sleep with her in the On-Call room."

Duh! She wasn't an idiot.

"Absolutely not." He shook his head quickly, golden curls swaying with the motion and he leaned back on the couch, lips tugging down. "Tracey is… she's not even a friend, but she's dating Neville and he's my roommate so—"

"Longbottom?"

"Of course Longbottom. Do you know many Nevilles?"

"Well no, but… but I didn't realize you were roommates."

"We don't exactly shout it from the rooftops, but it's hardly a secret."

"That must be complicated then."

"No more than normal, I suppose."

"Yeah but typically you don't sleep with your roommate."

Cormac spluttered, droplets of his spittle actually landing on her coffee table, and Hermione's brows lifted to her hairline as she watched him dissolve into a coughing fit. His cheeks reddened, eyes bulging with each spasm and he lifted the back of his hand to cover his mouth. "I… uh. Excuse me… Did you—"

"Are you alright?" She scooted to the edge of the cushion, head tilting to the side as she watched him gasp for fresh breath. "Please don't die. I would rather not have that on my property record."

Cormac shook his head, body shifting as he straightened his spine, clearing his throat for what seemed like the twentieth time. "I'm fine… just caught me off guard." His hand moved to the back of his neck, fingers rubbing across the clipped curls at the base of his skull. "Did you… did you insinuate I fucked Neville?"

She'd heard the rumor more times than she could count, and while she'd held reservations about the truth of it, it seemed plausible considering how many times it'd been repeated. But now that she'd said it aloud, to his fucking face… well, It was pretty silly.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, trying to decide the best way to pull her out of this web she'd tangled herself in. Of course, nothing seemed likely to work. Because yes, yes she had insinuated that. And yes, she had believed all the rumors about him.

"...yes."

Cormac nodded, brows lifting nearly to his hairline as he looked at her with an expression torn between surprise and incredulity. "Oh… okay. So I did hear it right." He rubs his hands together between his knees, lips pressing together. "Just so we're absolutely clear, I definitely haven't."

"I'm realising that now."

"Not that there is a problem with two guys… you know?—it's just… not my thing."

"Right."

"I like women."

"Noted."

"Like—a lot."

"Mhm."

"Breasts… the whole package."

She couldn't be certain without a mirror, but if there were a contest between whose cheeks were more red, it would have been stiff competition. Her eyes bulged as she looked at her lap, trying to fight back the urge to laugh—or possibly cry. Because if this wasn't mortifying enough, him expressing his appreciating for the 'fairer sex' was absolutely not helping.

"It's just me you don't like then. Got it." What she wouldn't do for the carpet to swallow her whole, at least death by human-eating carpet would mean she wouldn't have to look him in the eye as she licked her proverbial wounds. "You've made that abundantly clear."

"What? Hermione what the hell are you talking about?"

Of course he was going to make her spell it out for him. As if the mortification that she wanted to fuck him sideways from Sunday wasn't bad enough, the fact that he was so unaware of her affections, and absolutely did not see her in that manner—well, it was more than a little painful.

"What I'm talking about is fucking every damn woman at work and not me." She pinched the bridge of her nose, cheeks flaming bright red. "It's not a competition—and… and I don't really care, but like… I don't know. I thought you were into me and… and it's stupid because—"

"I am into you."

"—clearly you don't feel the same as—"

"Hermione."

"—I feel like such an—"

"Hermione!"

She looked up, though her fingers still twisted the string to her sweatpants to try and release some of the nervous energy that made her feel like she'd just shotgunned three red bull as opposed to confessing her infatuation. "What?"

"Stop fucking talking for a minute and just listen." Cormac scooted closer, his knees brushing against her thigh as he angled so they could face each other. "I do like you."

He… liked her.

He liked her? It didn't make any sense. If he liked her, then why did he spur her advances? Her brow furrowed, head tilting to the side, unanswered questions swirling like a cyclone in her mind.

Cormac's tongue ran across his lips, big blue eyes boring into hers, as if trying to decipher the very obvious confusion that was damn near visible between them. "I think there's been a bit of a miscommunication."

"That is an understatement." She breathed, head shaking.

"So let me clear some things up." He reached out, palm hovering just over hers, brows lifting in a silent question, and when she nodded, he very gently took her hands between his own, thumb stroking across her knuckles. "I like you Hermione… a lot. I've liked you for a bit, but… well you were in a relationship, and I have this no dating someone I work with policy. Which brings up my second thing. I haven't slept with anyone from work. Male or female."

She would have sworn the record scratch that followed his statement was audible for both of them as opposed to in her own head, though it was likely the incredulous twist of her face that made him laugh.

"I'm sorry. It's not… it's just there are a lot of stories I've heard and… I mean after the fifteenth you kind of start to assume there might be grains of truth in the mix."

"What kind of stories?" Cormac's head tilted to the side and his hands stilled, that gentle reassuring pressure from his thumb gliding across the top of her hand suddenly gone.

The audible gulp that followed his question should have been enough to show how truly painful this was going to be. It was one thing to whisper these tales during rounds, and join in mid-discussion with the nurses, but to say it to his face? Well that usually required a level of courage that only alcohol brought forth.

Gently, she eased her hands from his and rose from the couch, hands smoothing back the wispy baby curls that slipped from her top knot as she rounded the coffee table Her eyes dropped to the floor as if the dirty brown carpet could provide her some sort of focus.

"Well, like you fucked Padma in the maternity bathroom on New Years."

Oh god.

"Or how you had a threesome with Shannon B. and Millie over Labor Day weekend."

"Wow. That is… uh… I mean… wow."

"Yeah…" Her voice trailed off as her pace grew slower and slower until she froze across from him. She had been certain a week ago—so positive that she wanted nothing more than to drag this man into bed with her and let him do the filthy, filthy things she'd heard whispered between rounds.

But now?

Well, now she was confused.

Did she want to sleep with him? Abso-fucking-lutely. But he'd denied her, more than once, but now he sat there saying that: 1. These rumors she'd heard were untrue, and 2. That he actually liked her!

"Cormac." Her voice cracked as she lifted her eyes from the carpet to his. He was still sitting on her couch, elbows on kneecaps, hands cupping his jaw, contemplating life decisions in her small condo. "You like me?"

His tongue swept across his lips coupled with a definitive nod. "Yeah."

"Then why have you turned me down?" She didn't hide the way her confusion tinted her tone. No, she was showing her hand, all her cards on the table, so to speak. "I've tried to sleep with you more than once now and every time you—"

"Hermione, you've been drunk every time you've made your advances." He lifted his palm in a helpless shrug, as if the answer were so fucking obvious. "I would happily take you into that bedroom and do… whatever you wanted but… every time you propositioned me was after I'd collected you from the bar and, well, that's not a line I'm willing to cross with anyone in that state. Now or ever."

The oddest part about finding out U.C. Davis' resident ladies man was more of a gentleman than a gigolo, was the fact that his quirky chivalry only managed to make her want him more. Sure, sleeping with someone with no strings attached was fine, and she really wasn't in a position to judge his assumed numerous past exploits, but this somehow made it better.

He hadn't slept with more than half of their co-workers.

He wasn't some village bicycle.

And he, this stupidly handsome, charming, nice man actually liked her.

"I'm sober now." Truth be told, she wasn't entirely certain if she'd actually spoken the words, or just thought them, but when his eyes drifted to her untouched glass of wine on the coffee table and his brow lifted, as if doubting her claim. "I hadn't even taken a sip. I just uncorked it when you showed up."

Her breath caught in her throat, watching as he rose from the couch, and ambled towards her. She expected him to shoot her down—yet again. The timing was very clearly not right—Hell, she'd just fucking told him he was rumored to be the man about work. She wouldn't even blame him this time. She'd understand. She'd be irritated, but she'd get it.

He stood inches from her, hulking frame dwarving hers in a way that felt wholly inappropriate, and she looked up, trying to reign herself back in and not reach up to lock her arms around his neck.

"Thank god."

The two word reply had hardly registered when he was on her. Large hands sliding to her sides, and more importantly, his lips against hers. She'd daydreamed about the moment more times than she cared to admit, the taste of his kiss, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, and the scent of his intoxicating cologne permeating the room. Except—short of the actual act of kissing him—nothing was how she envisioned it.

She wasn't dressed in her best underwear (she wasn't even wearing any!), and he hadn't just whisked her home from a night out.

Her hands pressed against his chest, and even through the starchy cotton of his scrubs she could feel the hard planes of his body beneath. Her mind fogged, instantly lost to the pull that was her runaway labido and his kiss.

She pushed his hoodie from his shoulders, carelessly dropping it to the floor before her hand curled into the front of his top and she pulled him with her, lips not daring to part from his as she began to navigate backwards to her room.

She bumped the coffee table, knocking it askew, and then the arm of her couch. By the time she nearly upended an entry table that housed a healthy amount of her personal library's newest additions, she let out a frustrated growl and begrudgingly broke from the kiss

"Just follow me." She let go of his shirt to pat his chest before spinning around to lead the charge to her bedroom. Behind her she could hear the rumble of laughter, but when she shed her top on the way to her bedroom, it began to soften.

By the time her bra followed, the rumble was entirely silent. She moved ungracefully into her bedroom, thumbs hooking in the band of her sweatpants and she began to wiggling them down her hips, hoping to dispose herself of them entirely before she climbed on the bed,

Yes, sure, foreplay was fun, and the undressing part was all the build up, but it had been far too long and dammit, she was not willing to take her time just now.

They were both adults, they both knew precisely what they wanted and—

"Slow down, Hermione." Hot breath tickled her curls, and soon his hands curled around her hips, thumbs stroking against her goose pimpled flesh as he pulled her back until her body was enveloped by his much larger one. "We have all night."

Oh that promise. That was what she had been searching for for what felt like ages now. The endless possibilities of 'what if' that had played through her mind for so long were now here, and she couldn't help but give in to the adrenaline that guided her to divest herself of her clothing as quickly as possible.

"Yeah but—oh!" Before she could try to justify her eagerness, the press of lips against her throat silenced her. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned back against him, fingers frozen in the waistband of her sweats.

He took his time, pressing, licking, nibbling his way up and down her throat and shoulder, nose brushing over the junction of her neck before his lips followed the trail. His hands moved just as slowly as his mouth, caressing the soft abdomen she could never seem to manage to get rid of in an almost reverent manner. It wasn't until she felt the tickle of his fingertips against her ribcage that she could begin to piece together what his intended goal was.

"Christ, Hermione." He hands gingerly cupped her breast, sliding over the supple flesh, as if feeling the weight in each palm before his thumbs swiped across her nipples. "You're… perfect."

Perfect.

That was a world she had never heard applied to her. Sexy, sure. Hot, on occasion. Cute, often. But perfect? No. Perfect was reserved for women who had their lives together. Women who curled the hair, and wore makeup every day. Who didn't eat stale cheetos with peanut butter sandwiches at 3am when their shift ended.

But the way he said it… it made her want to believe him.

Her fingers curled into her waistband, holding it like it were a life preserver as she arched into his touch.

He took his time bringing her nipples to hardened peaks, plucking and caressing the sensitive flesh. Her hips rocked instinctively with his touch, and it was only then that she felt the press of his cock against her ass.

"Cormac," Hie name trembled up her throat, and she opened her eyes, craning her neck so she could look up at him.

His eyes were blown, only small slivers of blue visible in the low light of her room, and the new flush that colored his cheeks made her knees quake. He was already handsome as is, but now? Now he looked more akin to some modern day Adonis than a mere man.

Her jaw dropped as her ability to speak vanished. Even the involuntary act of breathing took precious brainpower that she was seriously contemplating giving up. He stood only in a pair of dark boxer briefs, the chiseled lines of his body shadowed beautifully. His chest held a small smattering of golden hair, sparsely littering the thick muscles, and running from beneath his navel to below his boxers, a trail of that very same golden wheat drew her eye.

Her eyes slowly traveled down his nearly bare body, taking in every inch of his skin until she reached his boxers.

Lord have mercy.

While Cormac had denounced the rumors of his sexual conquests that ran amok through U.C. Davis Medical Center as if they had a life of their own, she'd didn't bother to mention the one about his… manhood.

Because it was embarrassing, but also, because she prayed it wasn't false.

And based on the thick bulge that ran down his thigh, it was safe to say that this was clearly the most happy incident of her life.

"Hermione?"

Her eyes snapped back to his face, mouth coming to a close before her tongue could roll free like a wolf caricature. "Hm?"

"Bed." He nodded bedside her, brow cocking to give the hint of his request being a question that they both knew the answer to.

Refraining from vaulting onto her mattress, Hermione made quick work of crossing the room and crawling on the foot of her bed. Her knees sunk into the mattress, the memory foam absorbing her weight gracefully as she moved up towards her pillows.

Behind her she could feel the very subtle sensation of his joining her, causing her heart beat to tick up from a canter to a gallop.

She reclined back until her head hit the pillows, curls spreading wildly beneath her and she lifted her hips as she slipped her sweatpants and panties down her thighs. His hands joined her at her feet, taking over the process of removing her remaining clothing.

She leaned back, elbows tucked against the pillows as she watched him ease the elastic around each foot, taking his time, careful not to twist or bend her toes as he worked the sweatpants free before they found their fate on the floor behind him.

His eyes left blazing trails across her skin as he drank her in, as if studying every dip and curve of her frame.

When she was younger she might have felt bashful over her numerous imperfections. Cellulite riddled thighs, the burn scar that encased nearly her entire right side, and the extra padding on her middle. But now she almost felt empowered by them. They gave her character, the scars told stories of a different time, and the natural aging of her body was beautiful.

She wasn't a model—she would never be, but based on the way Cormac was looking at her, she didn't need to be.

His tongue swept across his lips when his eyes found hers again, and his hands found her ankles once more. He parted her legs with a slow push, his knees slipping between her spread legs as he shuffled closer.

Her legs bent at the knee to accommodate his hips as he moved closer until she felt his thighs press against her own. His hands ghosted up her sides until they reached just beneath her arms and he moved them to the mattress as he leaned over to press his lips against hers.

His kiss was slow, yet demanding, like his wait for this moment rivaled her own.

Her hands moved over his chest, stroking across the soft hair as she worked down his abdomen until her fingertips brushed the band of his boxers. As unceremoniously as the rest of their disrobe has been, she pushed them down in the same manner, using her feet to help her when her arms could no longer reach, until the boxers pooled around his knees.

His cock was heavy and thick as it fell against her abdomen, and she practically moaned when she felt him shift until the head pressed against her center.

It was like riding a bike, right? She couldn't forget how to have sex.

Biologically speaking, the concept wasn't lost on her. But the little tricks she might have had up her sleeve felt rusty after months of unwanted chastity.

Cormac gripped her thigh, his thumb curling under the junction of her knee and he adjusted her leg until she felt herself open for him. His cockhead nudged across her slit, coating himself in her essence before she felt him notch at her entrance.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down to where his body pressed into her, the erotic image was one she'd thought of countless times lately—one she'd literally invisioned days earlier when she used her favored toy. And now the reality that this was actually happening was setting in.

Her abdomen tightened, muscles spasming in anticipation and with no preamble or whispers of affection, Cormac pushed inside her.

"Ohfuck—" Her hands, which had found purchase on his shoulders tightened and she could distant hear him hiss in pleasure over the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her body stretched to accommodate his girth, the painful pleasure causing a near electric snap of nerve endings to fire down her spine.

His face tucked into her neck, hot breath washing over her skin with each labored exhale, and soon his moderate pace increased.

Moans, and half-muffled pleas danced off her tongue as she fell into bliss, hips rocking and grinding against his each time he bottomed out inside her. Soon the tension built, tight and steady in her abdomen until it felt like a piano wire, ready to snap.

Her arms tightened around his neck, fingers pressing against the hard plains of his back as her legs curled around his tapered waist.

She needed this release more than she needed air to breath. Her body was riddled with tension, wrought with unspoken emotion she hadn't been able to verbalize over the past six months, but now she felt almost free of it's burden as he drove her toward oblivion.

She was torn between wanting this build up to last for forever, or just wishing for it to finally peek, that twilight of madness fogging her mind when she felt it. The scrap of teeth and tongue against her throat, and it was just what she needed.

Her body trembled, his name gasped into her bedroom and she clung to him as her climax tore through her. Drudging waves of ecstasy radiated down every limb and she was only remotely aware of him finding his own end moments later.

She didn't release him, not quite ready to lose the weight of his body compressing hers as she felt the aftershocks ignite in her limbs. But as they slowed, she unwrapped her arms and legs from around him so he could fall beside her.

Her eyes remained shut, the heavy sound of their combined breath the only noise over the low hum of her heater. This, casual sex with Cormac, was something she could get used to. It might have been her dry spell, or perhaps years upon years of bedding the same redheaded asswipe, but his rumored prowess was clearly an accurate assumption from what she could tell.

"I...I think I lied to you."

Her brow furrowed, eyes closing cracking open as she looked over to Cormac who lay prone beside her, hands folded over his stomach. "What?"

His head turned, frizzy curls standing on end, and glassy blue eyes shimmered at her. "I just remembered about the new transfer in Plastics."

She tried to recall what work—or more specifically what a new doctor in Plastics might be worth mentioning post-orgasm, but she only continued to draw blanks. "I'm...sorry, but what are you talking about?"

Cormac laughed, slowly pushing himself up onto his elbows before he rolled to face her. "Doctor Parkinson. The new fellow in Plastics."

"Oh." She'd only just met the brunette at the last staff meeting. Their introduction hadn't left much for Hermione to work with and truth be told, she could hardly remember much beyond the fact Parkinson wore a pair of heels that looked more club worthy than hospital. "What about her?"

"I'm not sure if it counts, but—" Cormac laughed, hand ruffling his broken curls as he shook his head. "We used to fuck in med-school, so technically there is someone I've slept with on staff."

The admission was so casual that for a moment she almost lost herself watching his dimpled smile. Falling under his boyish charm was far easier than she'd like to admit, but thankfully there seemed to be some sort of clarity on the other side of her orgasm. "So then we're both each other's second."

Cormac's brow furrow, head cocking to the side with an unspoken question.

"The hospital's lawyer—Nott. Shortly after Ron and I broke up."

"You fucked Theo?"

"I mean… technically we fucked each other and then I abruptly left his house so I didn't have to face the reality of my bad decision…" Her shoulders lifted. "but same difference I suppose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from: [Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift ](https://youtu.be/aRwy8FyH8ik)
> 
> Hey. I finished this finally. LMAO.
> 
> thanks for letting me explore this pairing Bio. You're a great friend and im so happy fandom brought us into eachothers orbit.
> 
> Thanks again to Disenchantedglow for betaing. You're the best bitch.
> 
> Until next time. xx


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